A/N: Man, I can't believe I forgot to thank everyone for their lovely comments. I love them all.

The answer, it seemed, was absolutely nothing. At least, not until the latest trial-by-fire was concluded: Luncheon with Mr. and Mrs. Sigerson Holmes. And, of course, Brother Mycroft.

Molly assessed her appearance in the mirror with a critical eye. The soft, cream coloured dress with its border of cherries at wrist, neckline, waist and hem, was a perfect fit. Her hair, expertly rolled and pinned by Mrs. Hudson's niece, who was currently training as a lady's maid and was happy for the extra practice, looked both lusher and shinier than usual. The (to Molly's mind) oversized hat with its lace trim and small bunches of red silk roses that exactly matched the color of the cherries on her dress, was tilted at just the right angle.

"Right, then," she told her reflection. "Let's get this over with."

Having finally mastered the art of swishing around in skirts bunched over layers of petticoats and under-skirts, she made her way to the sitting room. She couldn't resist a small twirl as Sherlock rose to his feet, smiling self-consciously over her shoulder at him. "Well? Will I do?"

"You will 'do' quite nicely," he assured her. She stopped in front of him, hand clasped modestly together, eyes lowered and posture straight enough to do the strictest dance-master proud.

"Yes," Sherlock said, his voice rather closer now, "you'll do quite nicely indeed." He took one gloved hand in his and raised it to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to her knuckles. "My parents will adore you."

The glitter in his steely grey eyes made Molly catch her breath, but then he straightened up and offered his arm and the moment - had it existed anywhere outside her feverish imagination - was lost. "Shall we? It's a long drive to Mansfield Cottage."

Molly smiled and nodded, placing her hand in the crook of his arm. Gathering up his walking stick and hat, he escorted her out the door and down the stairs to a waiting carriage. He helped her in - she, for once, neither stumbling nor tripping over her long skirts - and took the seat beside her.

Molly found herself holding her breath as he closed the carriage door and settled in next to her. She fancied she could feel the heat of his body even through the multiple layers of clothing she wore, and tried desperately to think of anything except the fact that they rarely sat this closely together. Or how easily he could tuck her under his arm, should he choose to do so; her head would come to rest on his shoulder or perhaps on his chest, so that she could hear the beating of his heart...would it beat as quickly as hers was, or would he-

"Mrs. Holmes, you seem to be in something of a brown study. Perhaps we might while away the tedium of the journey by discussing your previous medical career?"

For one wild moment Molly thought he meant her career as a Specialist Registrar at St. Barts, then realised he must mean the false life they'd created for her. He gave a meaningful look at the back of the driver's head, and she nodded her understanding.

Time for yet another practice session before they met the real audience.

oOo

Sherlock listened closely as Molly rambled on about her supposed work as a physician at a Swiss clinic. She no longer sounded nervous and uncertain as she had at first, but rather there was a faint note of wistfulness in her voice. That part he knew to be no theatrics but a glimpse of her true feelings.

She missed her work. She missed her life. And she also, no doubt, missed 'her' Sherlock.

Of course she did, how could she not? He was the man she loved, the man from her own time who would never have reason to ask her to play such a charade, to deny her the work she showed so much passion for.

Passion. They shared that in common, she for her work and he for his. Any other passion that might or might not exist between them was entirely one-sided, he glumly reminded himself. Molly Hooper was trapped with him, that was true, and under such trying circumstances any woman might find herself clinging to familiar faces. Did she not still occasionally refer to Watson as 'John' instead of 'James'? So it was only natural that she should find herself transferring her affections from her Sherlock Holmes to the one in close proximity.

You're a fool, Holmes, he silently berated himself whilst simultaneously responding aloud to Molly's comments on the beauty of Swiss countryside. What Molly needs from you is your level headed thinking, not these adolescent fantasies you've harboured for so long. Clearly the reason the two of us shared visions of one another was not due to any romantical nonsense, but because she was fated to become part of my world, my time.

My life.

"Did I ever tell you about the case of the Speckled Band?" he burst out, desperate to escape his own maudling musings. "James had hopes of having that story accepted by The Strand for publication, but alas, it was deemed too fantastical; indeed, I believe one of the editors with whom he corresponded suggested he might submit it to the fiction editor, but he was quite insulted and gave up the whole thing as a bad business."

"I did mean to ask," Molly said, leaning toward him with an eager expression on her face. "I mean, John writes the cases up on his bl-uh, that is, he um, his blotter, he uses it...a...lot," she finished, a slight flush of embarrassment coloring her cheeks a fetching shade of pink. "Because he makes a lot of, um, mistakes, when he's writing - my friend John Wa...Walters." She floundered to a stop, biting her lip, and causing his heart to flip in his chest at the sight.

Blast and damn, would he never be able to comport himself properly around this woman, to school his reactions to her? His body had never betrayed him so viscerally with any other woman but one - and that relationship, brief and carnal though it had been, had not come close to affecting him as powerfully, as emotionally, as this one was.

There, he was doing it again! He and Molly Hooper had no 'relationship' to speak of. This sham marriage was a mistake; going to see his parents was a mistake; and most of all, giving up the damned cocaine solution had been a mistake! He was simply substituting one addiction for another and if he didn't stop this folly right now, he would…

"Sherlock? Are you all right?" Molly's soft voice, the gentle touch of her hand on his arm brought him instantly out of his self-induced panic.

He felt his heart slowing from its unrestrained gallop, his breaths calming, and managed a smile as he dared to lay his hand over hers. "Perfectly fine," he assured her. "Now. About the case of the Speckled Band…"

They whiled away the remainder of the two and a half hour ride in such a manner - him entertaining her with stories of some of his cases, and she exclaiming admiringly or expressing her distress as was suitable.

Neither of them alluded to the fact that he continued to hold her hand the entire time.

Mansfield Cottage

"Oh, how pretty!" Molly exclaimed as the carriage came to a stop in front of his parents' neat country home. He supposed it was, with the well trained roses against the garden wall and trailing over the arched gate - his father's work, rather than his mother's, who much preferred working in her herb garden at the back of the house. He realised with a small start that he'd actually told her very little about his parents, as they'd both been quite occupied with perfecting Molly's story and her adjustment to life in a time very different from her own.

But then, even if this marriage had been real, how much would he have been likely to share with a bride he'd wooed under such unusual circumstances? He'd roomed with James Watson for more than two years before bothering to mention that he had a brother - and even longer before sharing the fact that his parents were alive and well, living the life of country squires and venturing only rarely into London to see their sons.

"My parents will adore you," he murmured to Molly reassuringly as he saw her gaze turn somewhat apprehensive as the front door opened. "In fact, they're likely to love you more than they do either Mycroft or myself." With a wink, he opened the carriage door and stepped out, offering his hand to assist her down to the stone pathway leading to the red-painted front door.

As they passed under the archway, Sherlock courteously holding the gate aside, the door opened and his mother's figure appeared on the front step. "Hello!" she called out as they approached.

Sherlock felt Molly's hand tighten on his arm; without thinking, he brought his own hand to cover it and gave it a reassuring squeeze. She turned her head just the slightest bit, tilted it up to face him with a grateful smile, and once again his heart did that odd, unsettling thing, where it seemed to seize up in his chest for just a fraction of a second before resuming its normal, steady beat, albeit slightly faster than usual.

His mother, curse her sharp eyes and even sharper mind, took obvious note of the entire moment, brief though it was, as he could tell by the small smile on her lips. "Sherlock," she greeted him, offering her cheek for a kiss.

He performed the filial obligation without demur, accepting a return kiss from his mother before straightening up and turning his attention to Molly. "Mother, may I present my wife, Molly Holmes, nee Hooper. Doctor Molly Holmes," he added with just a touch of pride. Unfeigned pride at that, he was faintly surprised to realise.

His mother beamed at her faux daughter-in-law, holding out both hands and smiling even more broadly as Molly slipped her arm free of Sherlock's hold in order to grasp them in greeting. "Oh Sherlock, she's lovely!" his mother exclaimed. "Shame on you for waiting so long to introduce us!"

"She's only been in London for a brief…" His voice trailed off as his mother drew Molly's arm through her own and walked her into the house, effectively cutting off his protestations.

"Still, better late than never, I always say. And a doctor in the family, how thrilling! You must tell us all about your training, my dear, and your work in - was it Switzerland, where you and our Sherlock met? I must say, it's a great comfort knowing someone in the world knew he was alive and well, or as well as could be considering the height of the Reichenbach Falls!"

Sherlock kept his sigh internal and his eye-roll mental, knowing that his mother would catch even the tiniest outward reaction to her recriminations - for recriminations they most certainly were. The words she'd never been given the chance to say directly to him as he'd done the nearly unforgiveable and allowed Mycroft to carry word of his survival to both her and his father. They'd had several dinners and met at occasional family gatherings such as his Great Aunt Mathilda's funeral, but he'd been careful to avoid situations where she might be able to corner him and let him know how hurt she'd been by his avoidance of them.

But blast it all, a man was entitled to live his own life once he'd reached maturity, and he'd done just that his entire adult life - and, admittedly, somewhat beforehand as well. He'd apologized in a letter, explained the reasoning behind his lengthy sojourn on the Continent and Asia, and the reply he'd received had been courteous and, he'd thought, understanding.

It was all Molly's fault, he concluded glumly as he followed along at their heels like a chastened puppy. Had he not been forced to fabricate a marriage, then he and his parents could have continued their loving, if distant, relationship.

Then again, he decided as he inhaled the scent of his father's pipe tobacco wafting down the stairs from his father's study, there was something to be said for reestablishing familial bonds. With a murmured "Excuse me" he detoured from the path his mother was taking to the kitchen - no doubt to show off her considerable culinary skills - and headed up the stairs and into the room that was, as it had been throughout most of his childhood, his father's domain.

oOo

Molly glanced over her shoulder at Sherlock's mumbled 'scuse me', if that was, indeed, what he'd said, fighting down panic at the thought of being alone with his mother. Although he hadn't explicitly promised to stay with her for the visit, she certainly hadn't expected him to just pop off at the first moment!

Then again, she hadn't been deaf to the reproachful tone in Mrs. Holmes' voice when she'd mentioned Reichenbach and Sherlock's three-year hiatus. And who wouldn't take the first opportunity to skive off after such a masterful display of motherly guilt? Had it been her own mother, who'd been a bit of a thorn in the side of Molly's teenaged self, she'd probably have done the exact same thing.

She smiled politely as her hostess proudly showed off her state-of-the-19th-century-art appliances, including a brand new stove and icebox which had been imported from the United States, then took a seat at the homey wood-planked table and accepted a cup of very good tea liberally whitened and sugared, just the way she liked it.

Mrs. Holmes continued to chatter on about the house and neighborhood (somewhat of a step down, Molly gathered, from the ancestral Holmes Manor, which had apparently burned down during Sherlock's childhood, but one she was assured was far more practical to manage) and various gardening projects both she and Mr. Holmes were involved in. Molly felt herself gradually relaxing, grateful that the unsubtle grilling about her past that Sherlock had seemed to believe inevitable was at least put off until after a nice cuppa.

"So, my dear, you'll forgive me for being indelicate, but there aren't any grandchildren you and my youngest son have been hiding from us as well, are there?"

Molly sputtered and nearly dropped her delicate, hand-painted China cup before catching it and fumbling it to the table. "I, I beg your pardon?" she asked, only barely stopping herself from blurting out a far less ladylike "what the fuck?"

Mrs. Holmes smiled comfortingly and sipped her own tea. "I do apologize, my dear, but I thought it best to get the most difficult question I could think of out of the way immediately, to allow you to perhaps relax just the smallest bit. I hope you don't mind my saying so, but you've looked so apprehensive since you arrived, I do hope Sherlock hasn't been warning you against us." She looked honestly worried. "I admit, we're not the most conventional family - I was a published mathematician before Siger and I met and of course he's still not allowed to speak of the nature of the military work he did in the Crimea, playing the 'great game' don't you know - and...oh dear." She fell silent with a slight blush. "I've been rambling, do forgive me."

If she was trying to put Molly at her ease, she was doing a bang up job of it. "No, it's fine," Molly assured her with a smile. "I love hearing about your family, Mrs. Holmes."

"Oh, do call me Violet, my dear, I don't hold with old fashioned formality, although my mother, God rest her soul, called my father 'Mr. Vernet' until the day she died."

"Violet," Molly replied, a warm feeling blossoming in her heart. She hadn't had a clue as to what sort of people Sherlock's parents were, but his mother was absolutely lovely and she suspected his father would be just as delightful once she had a chance to meet him. "Sherlock hasn't told me very much about, well, any of you, but I think that's just the way he is." She let out an awkward laugh, hoping she hadn't just hurt the other woman's feelings, but Violet responded with an understanding chuckle.

"Oh yes, Sherlock does like to keep his secrets, always has ever since he was a boy," she said reminiscently. "And Mycroft, goodness! He's even worse. Speaking of…" she glanced up at the clock on the fireplace mantel. "He'll be here within the hour, if I know my son, never was late for a meal in his life even when it might have been best if he missed a few." She frowned distractedly and stood up.

Molly rose to her feet as well. "Is there anything I can do to help?" she offered as her hostess began bustling around, clearing up the tea things and placing them in the large ceramic sink.

"No, my dear, you're a guest - well, you're family now, but you're still our guest. I'll just…" She peered uncertainly at the door. "Would you find me terribly rude if I were to ask you to make your own way upstairs to Siger's study? I'm sure that's where Sherlock and he are hidden away, smoking those hideous pipes of theirs. Third door on the left, just past the marble table with the dreadful Moroccan vase Siger's Aunt Gertrude gave us as an anniversary present last year, one of these days I must find a way to 'accidentally' knock it over." She gave Molly a conspiratorial wink, and the next thing she knew, she was outside the kitchen and heading for the stairs, her head whirling but a smile on her lips.

She was going to enjoy being a part of this family, even if it was under deceptive circumstances.

She just hoped those circumstances never came back to bite her - or Sherlock - on the ass.

A/N: Whaaat, less than a year between chapters? Well don't get used to it, LOL. Seriously though, I do hope you enjoy this new chapter. Many thanks to Mouse9 for reading this chapter over!